“What are you doing here?” Freya growled. I had seen her annoyed, irritable, even angry, but this was different. This was unadulterated rage. She was still holding the fork and a frisson of fear ran through me.

“Put the fork down,” I said, keeping my distance.

Freya slammed the utensil down on the counter. “Why are you here?”

Max added, “This is none of your business, Low.”

Suddenly, I realized that I was the intruder, that my help, my interference, was unwanted.

“I—I was working late,” I stammered. “I guess I dozed off. I heard screaming. I came to help.”

“Get out, you psycho.” Freya’s voice was cold.

I looked at Max.

“Go home,” he said softly.

As I slinked across the deck and down the stairs, I heard Freya’s voice. “And don’t come back!”

She didn’t mean it, I told myself. She was angry and overwrought and would regret her words in the morning. What had Max done to warrant her fury? This had to be about the baby. Maybe he was making her keep it? Or making her get rid of it? It had to be something really bad to make her want to fork him like a steak.

When I reached the studio, I grabbed my keys and hurried to my truck. Climbing in, my fingers fumbled with the ignition, my key stabbing blindly in the darkened cab. My breath was coming rapid and shallow. I was on the verge of hyperventilating, on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack. I was in no state to drive, but I had to leave. I had to put distance between myself and the scene at the luxurious home.

As I drove the dark and deserted road up the island, I breathed deeply through my nose, trying to calm myself. Tomorrow, Freya would text me to explain. It was a lovers’ quarrel heightened by the unfortunate pregnancy news. The hormones had made her crazy; she wouldn’t really have hurt Max. She’d thank me for diffusing the situation, apologize for her harsh words, beg me to come back to the studio. She’d promise to have an abortion as soon as possible and then things would go back to normal.

Even after what I had seen, I was still desperate to be a part of their lives.

Chapter 23

23

When I got home, my dad was lying on the sofa with Eckhart on his chest. He didn’t question my entrance at 2:40 a.m., didn’t ask where I’d been spending my nights for the past few weeks.

“Be quiet,” he whispered, and pointed at my brother, who was still sniveling even in his sleep. And I was quiet. I tiptoed up to my room, which now had a crib in one corner, and climbed silently into my bed. As soon as my head hit the pillow, Eckhart began to wail.